Previously on The Insiders: Bran awoke in his cramped bunk, nursing injuries from his crash. TiGer encouraged him with thoughts on transformation and the importance of preparing one’s ‘soil’ for growth. Roxy visited, reinforcing Bran's ability to reshape his future. However, their moment was interrupted when Adreno Guards arrived, demanding he follow them under Cropper's orders. Bran faced his anxiety but chose to walk independently toward his uncertain fate, ready to confront whatever lay ahead in Cropper's office.

The Adreno Guards' boots clattered against the Flexishell floor, their red and silver uniforms catching the dim corridor lights. Bran's injuries screamed with each step as they marched him towards the Central Collusseum where Cropper's office lurked.

"MOVE FASTER!" The guard on his left vibrated with barely contained energy.

"GO! GO! GO!" His colleague on the right matched the intensity, both of them practically bouncing off the walls.

Their commands ricocheted through the narrow passage, multiplying until it felt like an entire platoon shouted at him. The guards' constant state of heightened alertness pressed in around Bran, making the air feel thick and heavy.

"NO TIME TO WASTE!" The left guard's voice cracked with urgency.

Bran's dendricals twitched beneath their bandages as the guards hustled him past maintenance hatches and warning signs, their pace increasing with each step towards Cropper's domain.

Bran's joints protested with each forceful step. His mind drifted to that moment in the Throne Room - how he'd frozen when Sera needed him most. The memory burned, familiar self-loathing rising like bile.

I know what I should do, but I keep messing up. The thought echoed through his consciousness as the Adrenos shoved him forward. He'd tried to change after his exile, attempted to be better, more responsible. Yet here he was again, being dragged to face consequences for another failure.

His dendricals throbbed beneath their bandages, a physical reminder of his latest mishap at L3 Station. The pain matched the ache in his chest as he recognised the pattern - good intentions crumbling under pressure, right choices abandoned in crucial moments.

Sher Gar's words about preparing the soil of one's heart rang hollow now. How could he cultivate anything good when everything he touched seemed to wither? The struggle between who he wanted to be and who he was felt like a chasm too wide to cross.

I do not understand what I do, he thought. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.

As the Adreno Guards marched him past a bank of darkened observation screens, Bran caught glimpses of his reflection - tall, thin, that shock of reddish-brown hair like an unkempt shrub. His dendricals hung limp beneath their bandages, a far cry from the proud Beta Wave Messenger he'd once been.

The dim light warped his reflection, and for a moment he saw himself as he was before the exile - standing tall in his pristine silver uniform with its yellow lightning flashes, dendricals crackling with energy as he raced important messages through the tubes. That Bran had sneered at the Automotons, dismissed their wisdom, treated the whole ship like his personal playground.

Another window, another memory - himself bursting into the Throne Room uninvited, certain he could handle whatever crisis arose. His arrogance had only made things worse as Sera remained barricaded inside, the Tree of Life withering while he floundered uselessly.

The next reflection showed him racing through restricted sections, taking shortcuts through vital systems because he knew better than everyone else. How many times had his "shortcuts" caused cascading failures throughout The ALEx? The Automotons had cleaned up his messes while he'd swaggered away, oblivious to the chaos he left in his wake.

Each screen revealed another version of himself - younger, cockier, more foolish. The Beta Wave Messenger who thought rules were for lesser beings. The officer-in-training who ignored safety protocols because they slowed him down. The exile who still hadn't learned his lesson, still rushing headlong into disaster at L3 Station.

The memory hit Bran like a physical blow. That night, three moncycles ago, when he'd tried to impress Gemma with his access to restricted areas. Her posh giggles had echoed through the corridor as he'd override the security protocols on Cropper's office door.

"Watch this," he'd whispered, his dendricals crackling with nervous energy beneath his red and blue gloves. The door had slid open with a soft hiss.

Inside stood Cropper, caught in an undignified state of undress, his once-imposing Gestapoesque uniform now draped about him like forgotten laundry. His regulation trousers had abandoned their post and slumped defiantly around his feet. A wizened, shrunken fellow knelt before him, resembling nothing so much as an animated dried prune. Cropper's usually pristine plumage stuck out in all directions, whilst his palms remained locked to his sides as though magnetised there at the instant he'd noticed their intrusion.

"Do excuse us barging in. Please continue, gentlemen," Bran squeaked, struggling to suppress his mirth.

Cropper's handsome face had contorted, his affected accent slipping as rage took over. "You... you..." His theatrical crow-like caw had turned into a distinctly un-crow-like screech of fury.

The memory of Gemma's delighted cackle still burned. She'd disappeared moments later, leaving Bran to face Cropper's wrath alone. That single moment of showing off had cost him everything - his position, his status, his future. All to impress a girl who'd treated him like a disposable toy in her game of sibling rivalry with TiGer.

The Adreno Guards' boots thundered against the flexishell, yanking Bran back to his present predicament. His bandaged dendricals throbbed with phantom embarrassment.

Bran's mind drifted to that mockery of justice three ancycles ago. The Central Collusseum had been packed - every Beta and Gamma Wave Messenger squeezed onto the observation decks, their silver uniforms gleaming under the harsh lights. Cropper had strutted before them in his snappy black uniform, each precise step a performance.

"This specimen," Cropper had over-enunciated, gesturing at Bran with theatrical disdain, "represents everything wrong with our modern messaging system. No respect for authority. No understanding of proper procedures."

A perfectly-timed caw punctuated his words. The assembled messengers had shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Bran's gaze. Even TiGer, usually so quick to defend him, had remained silent.

"Such flagrant disregard for privacy and protocol cannot go unpunished." Cropper's affected accent had grown more pronounced with each syllable. "We must make an example."

The memory of Cropper's vindictive smile still made Bran's dendricals twitch beneath their bandages. Had exile really been the only option? Perhaps if he'd shown more remorse, apologised properly instead of standing there with that defiant smirk...

But then he remembered the Chief's gruff wisdom during those first dark cycles in the basement: "Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom before you can start climbing back up."

Working alongside the Automotons had taught Bran more about responsibility and respect than all his messenger training combined. Their simple dedication to keeping The ALEx running smoothly contrasted sharply with his former arrogance.

Still, doubt gnawed at him. Had his punishment truly fit the crime? Or had Cropper simply seized the opportunity to eliminate a potential rival? The uncertainty weighed heavier than any physical pain from his recent injuries.

The Adreno Guards halted abruptly outside Cropper's office, nearly causing Bran to stumble. The flexishell beneath his feet rippled with an unsettling pattern, as if the ship itself sensed his discomfort.

A hooded figure emerged from Cropper's office, hunched and withered like a dried prune. For a fleeting moment, he questioned whether this shrivelled figure was the same one from that fateful day. Their gazes connected for a picos - dark, sunken orbs that sparked a memory of Creetnin from that nightmare in the Throne Room. The same malevolent intelligence lurked behind those eyes, sending ice through Bran's veins.

The figure shuffled past, their black cape brushing against Bran's bandaged dendricals. The touch sent shivers racing up his arms, leaving behind an inexplicable sense of dread.

Bran faced the stark office door, its surface as cold and unwelcoming as its occupant. The same door he'd breached three ancycles ago in a moment of foolish bravado. Now it loomed before him like an executioner's block.

His dendricals twitched beneath their bandages as he stared at the nameplate: "AOC Cropper - Assistant Officer Controller." Each letter seemed to mock him, reminding him of his fall from grace. The polished surface reflected his disheveled appearance - no longer the proud Beta Wave Messenger, but an exile marked by his own mistakes.

The door's severe lines and militant angles matched Cropper's aesthetic perfectly - all sharp edges and unforgiving surfaces. Like its owner, it offered no warmth, no mercy, only judgment.

The door hissed open. Bran's dendricals tingled as he stepped into Cropper's meticulously arranged office. Everything aligned at precise angles - the desk, the filing cabinets, even the ceremonial medals displayed on the wall. The space reeked of artificial order and control.

Cropper perched behind his desk, his handsome features arranged in a practiced smile that never reached his eyes. His black uniform gleamed under the harsh lighting, every crease razor-sharp.

"Ah, if it isn't Brandon Beta" Cropper's affected accent dripped with false warmth. "Our wayward Beta Wave Messenger. Or should I say, disgraced former messenger?"

Bran's dendricals twitched beneath their bandages. The way Cropper drew out each syllable made his skin crawl.

"I heard about your little... accident at L3 Station." Cropper's theatrical caw punctuated the statement. "Such a shame. But then, we all know about your tendency toward unfortunate incidents, don't we?"

Like a particularly smug leopard who'd just discovered its dinner was pre-tenderised, Cropper rose from his chair with the kind of liquid elegance typically associated with premium cooking oils. As Cropper circled the furniture like an apex predator, Bran felt like a hapless baby goat that had chosen an especially poor moment to start favouring one leg.

"First the Throne Room debacle, then that regrettable invasion of privacy." Cropper's smile widened. "And now this. Strike number three if I’m not much mistaken. One might almost think you're determined to prove me right about your... unsuitability for service."

The words struck like physical blows. Bran felt his shoulders hunching inward, his height suddenly a burden rather than an advantage. Each perfectly enunciated syllable reminded him of his failures, his mistakes, his exile.

"Tell me, how are you finding life among the Automotons?" Cropper's voice dripped false concern. "Such a fall from grace - from carrying vital messages to carrying out trash. Though surely that's where you belonged all along?"

Cropper's perfectly manicured dendricals unfurled a crisp scroll, the synthpaper crackling with ominous finality. Bran's heart plummeted as he recognised the red seal of permanent discharge. His bandaged dendricals trembled, every injury from L3 Station forgotten in the face of this new terror.

"By order of the Controllers," Cropper's affected accent caressed each syllable with malicious glee, "Brandon Beta, formerly of Beta Wave Messaging Division, is hereby sentenced to permanent discharge for repeated violations of safety protocols, unauthorized access of restricted areas, and general incompetence unbecoming of an ALEx crew member."

The words echoed in Bran's mind - permanent discharge. The death sentence of The ALEx. His dendricals went numb as images flashed through his consciousness: the discharge chamber's cold embrace, the excruciating extraction of power and essence, his remains reduced to dust and ejected into the void. Even his memories would be stripped from the vessel's systems, sealed away in the Elm Street Plot as a warning to others.

"The sentence shall be carried out at third watch this cycle." Cropper's theatrical caw punctuated the declaration. He advanced on Bran, backing him into a corner. The scroll brushed against Bran's chest like a executioner's blade. "No appeals. No exceptions. No escape."

Bran's legs threatened to give way. The office walls seemed to close in, Cropper's perfectly pressed uniform filling his vision. This wasn't just exile or punishment - this was obliteration. Complete erasure from The ALEx, from existence itself.

The flexishell beneath his feet rippled with what felt like sympathy, but even the ship couldn't save him now. His throat closed as the full weight of his situation crashed down. At third watch, Brandon Beta would cease to exist. He risked a look at the watch keeper mounted above and sensed his core dissolving as the display confirmed mere hundreds of milliseconds remained.

Bran's legs trembled as Cropper gestured toward a sleek black cylinder tucked into the corner of his office. The personal discharge chamber's polished surface reflected his terrified expression, multiplying his fear back at him. Of course Cropper would have his own execution device - it matched his aesthetic perfectly.

"Step inside." Cropper's affected accent took on an almost gleeful edge. "Let's make this quick and clean yet agonisingly slow and painful."

Before Bran could move, the office door burst open. Miss Cripps swept in, her black feathers so dark they seemed to absorb the light. Her cane struck the flexishell with sharp, authoritative taps.

"Well, well, well. What have we here now?" Her gravelly voice cut through the tension. She fixed Cropper with a piercing stare. "AOC Cropper, I trust you weren't about to conduct an unauthorized discharge?"

Cropper's handsome features flickered with uncertainty. "Miss Cripps, I was merely-"

"The Captain has explicitly forbidden any permanent discharges without full Controller review." Cripps's cane tapped closer, each strike making Cropper flinch. "Surely you received the memo?"

Bran watched in stunned silence as Cropper's theatrical confidence crumbled under Cripps's razor-sharp gaze. Despite her well-known contempt for him, she was actually intervening. The same Miss Cripps who'd supported, nay, who’d advocated his exile was now ensuring his survival.

"Of course, my mistake." Cropper's accent slipped as he hastily rolled up the discharge order. "I was simply discussing disciplinary options with Brandon here."

"Indeed." Cripps's voice dripped sarcasm. She turned to Bran, her black eyes glittering. "The Captain wishes to review your case forthwith. You are to return to the Nexus immediately and report to the Captain with due haste."

Bran's dendricals trembled as Cropper thrust a yellow glove at him, the fabric crackling with temporary high-level access codes. The Assistant Controller's perfect posture had crumpled like wet synthpaper, his theatrical accent abandoned in his haste to backpedal.

"You'll need this to reach the Captain's level," Cropper muttered, his handsome features twisted in barely concealed rage.

As Bran slipped the yellow glove over his bandaged dendricals, his mind raced. Only two people could have alerted the Captain so quickly - Roxy and TiGer. Their unwavering support struck him deeply, especially given how poorly he'd treated them in the past.

He thought of TiGer's constant defense of him, even when he'd carelessly pursued her sister Gemma. And Roxy, who'd always seen past his brash exterior to the potential within. They'd remained loyal while he'd been anything but.

The flexishell rippled beneath his feet as he left Cropper's office, each step bringing fresh clarity. His internal struggle felt like two opposing forces - the desire to do right versus the habit of taking shortcuts. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do, he reflected, understanding Paul's words in Romans with new depth.

The conflict between his spirit and flesh, as described in Galatians 5:17, suddenly made perfect sense. His old patterns of thought and behavior fought against the person he wanted to become. But for the first time, Bran felt ready to actively engage in that battle rather than passively accepting defeat.

The yellow glove hummed with power against his dendricals. This wasn't just a reprieve - it was an opportunity for real change. The path ahead wouldn't be easy, but he no longer wanted to be the Beta Wave Messenger who took shortcuts and ignored consequences.

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